Chasing Butterflies Read online

  Anyway...

  Crystal smacks Cameron’s hand. “Hands off my fries,” she warns, pointing a finger at him.

  “Ow,” he yelps.

  “Next time it’ll be your face,” she warns, pointing her fork at him.

  He laughs. “Slap me, boo. I like it when you talk dirty.”

  Crystal grunts. “Oh, brother. Someone come put this lecherous boy out of his misery. Please. Before I stab him with my fork.”

  “Go ahead. I dare you.” He takes a sip of his Mountain Dew. “I bet you’ll look real chic in shackles and a Lynwood jumper,” he teases, referring to the Lynwood Jail for women.

  She sucks her teeth. “First of all, I’d probably get off on a technicality.”

  “Yeah, because you’re technically crazy,” he says. “Your next point?”

  She rolls her eyes. “And, secondly, Dumbo, I’m not old enough to go there.”

  Cameron furrows his brows. “Are you serious? Dang, Crystal.” He shakes his head, giving her a pitiful look. “Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?”

  “What? Excuse you?” she says, indignation rising in her tone. “Have you?”

  “Yup. Every day. And I love what I see. But you . . .” He pauses, shaking his head again. “Sorry, babe, you look old, like Social Security, pension-collecting old.”

  Crystal feigns a yawn. “That was so lame.”

  These two are ridiculous, I think.

  Swallowing a sip of my iced vanilla latte, I slide a look over at Cameron. “To answer your question . . .”

  He gives me a puzzled look. “What question was that... ?”

  I sigh. “Jeez. Why boys can’t be friends with girls.”

  “Oh, yeah, right. Yeah, what’s the deal with that?”

  “Oh, I can tell you the deal with that,” Crystal offers, pushing her plate back, and wiping her mouth with her napkin. “Because instead of just being BFFs, boys are always trying to be FWBs. They’d rather have the perks of a boo without the title. They’ll say she’s just a friend, but we know what that really means.” She narrows her eyes at Cameron, who steals another French fry. “They’re such douchebags.”

  Cameron ignores her, gazing at me with those amazingly cute eyes of his. “Feel free to chime in, Nia-pooh.”

  “All boys aren’t jerks,” I say, eyeing Crystal, who’s sitting across from me with her arms folded over her chest and staring at me with her puppy-dog eyes. “Some are actually really nice, if you just give them a chance.” I gesture with my eyes from Crystal to Cameron.

  She frowns. “Oh, puh-lease. Try nice and horny.”

  Cameron rolls his eyes up to the ceiling. “You know this angry black girl syndrome you’re struggling with has to stop. You sound real bitter.”

  “I’m not bitter.”

  “Okay, then. Try sour. You’re real tart, Crystal. You need Jesus. And you still need a breath mint.”

  I chuckle, shaking my head. “Crystal, ignore his silly butt.” I bring my attention to Cameron. “I agree with you, though. Most boys are guided by their hormones, but not all of them act on them. There are some who know how to exercise restraint.”

  I am simply regurgitating what Daddy once told me during one of our many talks. And I believe him. And I trust him.

  Because he said I could.

  Because he promised to always give me the best advice he possibly could.

  Crystal grunts. “Mmph. When? Where? And who? Because I haven’t met one boy yet who isn’t trying to hump and grind up on something.”

  Cameron waves his hand as if he’s trying to get her attention. “Umm, hello. I’m right here.”

  She scowls. “Yeah, okay. And you’re still ugly as ever.”

  Cameron rolls his eyes up in his head, flicking a thumb over at Crystal. “See. Angry.” Yeah, she should be, I think. Angry with herself for not seeing what a great catch Cameron is.

  I sigh inwardly. “Crystal’s entitled to her opinion,” I offer, glancing over at her. “That doesn’t mean she’s right. Or I’m right. Or you’re right. It simply means we all have differences of opinion.”

  “Exactly,” Crystal says, shifting in her seat. “Didn’t you read that book, Boys Are Martians, and Girls Are—”

  “It’s Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus,” Cameron says, cutting her off. “She’s such a bubblehead. And, by the way, good book.”

  “And I saw the movie,” Crystal retorts.

  Cameron laughs. “No you didn’t. That isn’t even a movie. See. I keep telling you to work on your lies.”

  She snorts. “Boy, I did see it. So now. I saw it with Nia. Isn’t that right, Nia?”

  Wrong. “That was He’s Just Not That into You with Scarlett Johansson.” I tilt my head at her. “You wanted to see it, remember?”

  She shrugs. “Oops. As you were saying?”

  I wave her on dismissively.

  “Yeah, Nia,” Cameron repeats. “As you were saying. Please and thank you.”

  “Well, I was getting ready to say that girls just think differently than boys,” I reason, spearing a cherry tomato from my salad with a fork.

  Cameron takes a bite of his sandwich. “True. But that doesn’t mean he can’t have boundaries. Take me for instance. I’m friends with two of the”—he looks over at Crystal and frowns—“on second thought. One of the prettiest girls, and one of the ugliest . . .”

  I chuckle to myself.

  Cameron loves instigating Crystal.

  She hits him. “Boy, whatever. The only ugly one in the room is you.”

  “Yeah, okay. But you don’t see me trying to hammer either of you. Do you?” He glances over at Crystal. “Well, I’d have to put a bag over your face to even consider it. Sorry.”

  “Ohmygod, Cameron. Stop!” I say, trying to hold back a laugh. “That’s so not nice. I told you to play nice.”

  “I am playing nice,” he insists, grinning sheepishly. “Being ugly and having bad breath is a bad combination.” He places a hand over Crystal’s. “My heart goes out to you, Dragon Girl.”

  Crystal sucks her teeth, snatching her hand from beneath his. “Forget you, boy. I can’t stand you.”

  “Stop lying,” he says.

  I sigh, shaking my head. “Cam, you wouldn’t try anything with Crystal or me because you were taught to respect females. And you respect us.”

  He nods his head. “True.” He grins. “That doesn’t mean I don’t fantasize.”

  I ball up a napkin and throw it at him. “Ugh. TMI.”

  He swats the napkin away. “Hey, what’s the problem? I’m being honest here. Even ugly girls with bad breath need love.”

  Crystal rolls her eyes. “Boy, you couldn’t hammer me if you tried.”

  Cameron shakes his head. “I’m not that interested, Box-troll. Try again.” He looks at me. “But . . .”

  I arch a brow. Tilt my head. “But what?”

  I hold my breath, waiting.

  You never know what’ll come out of Cameron’s mouth. The boy has very little filter.

  “We’ve been friends since fourth—”

  “Fifth grade, idiot,” Crystal snarls.

  “Right, right. I stand corrected. Since fifth grade.” He smiles thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t want to do anything that would jeopardize our friendships.”

  “Aww,” I say, reaching over the table and squeezing his hand. “I love you, too.”

  “Can I get a kiss then?” He wiggles his brows up and down. “I won’t tell anyone.” He puckers up his lips, then makes a loud kissy noise.

  I snatch my hand back. “Ill. Nooo.” I laugh. “You’re pathetic.”

  “Marry me, boo.”

  Crystal tilts her head, giving me a look. “See. Horny.”

  I wave her dismissively. “I don’t pay Cameron any mind. You know he’s a play fiend.”

  She gives me an incredulous look. “No. Just fiend. That’s what he is.”

  Cameron smirks. “Says the girl with the dragon breath.” He reaches for h
er plate and grabs more food. “Dang. All this foreplay has me starving.”

  Crystal pulls her straw from her glass and playfully flicks water on him.

  “Do it again. I like it wet,” he mock-groans, before shoveling French fries into his mouth.

  Crystal gives me a look. “See. He’s a freak for all things vulgar.”

  6

  “Hey, Daddy,” I say a few days later, popping my head into his bright, airy office with the glass wall that offers him a picturesque view of our infinity pool and our enormous backyard lined with beautiful electric-blue jacaranda trees.

  He’s hovered over his desk, glasses on, pen in hand, sketching. He looks up from his blueprints and smiles. “Hey, Butterfly.”

  I step across the threshold, smiling inside. Every time he calls me butterfly I can’t help but smile inside. I feel so loved by him. “Are you busy?”

  He leans back from his glass-top drafting table and removes his glasses. “I’m never too busy for my favorite girl.”

  “Oh, Daddy, stop,” I say lightheartedly. “I’m your only girl.”

  He smiles. “That you are. And you’re still my favorite.”

  I smile back at him.

  Daddy is the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. And I’m not just saying that because he’s my father. I’m saying it because it’s true. He’s thirty-nine, but he looks like he’s younger. And he has a reddish-brown complexion that always looks as if it’s been kissed by the sun. When he’s dressed in his suits, he always looks as if he’s stepping off a photo shoot for GQ magazine.

  And ladies are always looking at him, or trying to catch his eye when I’m out with him. But he doesn’t really pay them any mind, maybe because he’s out with me.

  I know I probably shouldn’t say this. But I think it’s time for Daddy to start dating again. Mommy’s been gone for ten years now, and he deserves to be happy with someone. He says when the time is right, he will. But for now he always says he’s already happy.

  “So what’s up, sweetheart?” Daddy asks, cutting into my reverie.

  “Nothing really.” I clear my throat, and saunter further into the room. “I didn’t know you were working from home today.”

  Daddy’s firm is located in the heart of downtown L.A., and—with close to a hundred architects, interior designers, and urban planners—is ranked among the top five design firms across the state. Ohmygod! Wait. They also have a spectacular studio in Dubai!

  And I got to spend the whole summer there last year while they opened it.

  It was super cool. No, stupendously awesome!

  But that’s another story, for another time.

  “I decided not to go in today,” Daddy says, folding his arms across his chest as he leans back in his chair. “Figured I’d get more done being home.”

  “Ahh, playing hooky, eh?”

  Daddy chuckles. “Something like that.”

  I give him a hug. “So how was your day?”

  “It was good. Better now.” He kisses me on the side of the head. “How was school?”

  I let out a long exaggerated sigh, releasing him from my hug. “Oh, you know. The usual. Boring.” I slink around his desk, sliding a finger around the edges of the tempered-glass, then lifting one of his architectural scales from his desk. “But I only skipped four classes instead of my usual six today.”

  Daddy knows I’d never cut classes, but he plays along anyway.

  He considers me thoughtfully. “Hmm. Is that so?”

  I nod. “Yup.”

  “Well, did you get caught?”

  I shake my head vigorously. “Nope.” I set the scale back down and glance over at the large rolls of tracing paper, then sweep my gaze over toward the rows and rows of architectural reference manuals and books in the mahogany wall-to-floor bookcases that line the wall in back of Daddy, before my eyes land back on him.

  He eyes me with amusement.

  “I’m too sly to get caught,” I tease.

  “I see. So, tell me. What would your father do if he ever found out you were skipping out on your classes?”

  I shrug. “Ohhh, I don’t know. Probably ground me for a week or two.”

  “Hmm. I see. How about until you turned eighteen?”

  I feign shock, placing a hand up to my chest. “Oh, no. That’s too harsh. That would be cruel and unusual punishment.”

  His eyes flicker. “Is that so?”

  “Unh-huh. But lucky for me, I don’t have a daddy who would do such a cruel thing to his only child. His favorite girl.”

  He smiles. “Well, lucky for you, you have a father who trusts you immensely. And I have a daughter who gets straight As and who’d never run me ragged, skipping her classes, going out doing God knows what.”

  And he’s sooo right. I wouldn’t. School—next to piano and poetry—is one of the most important things in my life. I want to go to college when I graduate, so I am not about to mess up now.

  “But would you be mad if I did skip classes?”

  He considers me for a moment, rubbing his smooth-shaven chin. “No, sweetheart. I wouldn’t be mad if it were only an isolated incident. Now if it became a pattern, I’d probably still not get mad. Surprised, absolutely. Disappointed, most definitely. But definitely not mad. Like I always tell you. I can’t be everywhere all the time. And I’m not going to always be around to gauge your choices in life. That’s where integrity comes in. You’re a gifted and talented student, Nia, who’s always been disciplined. That’s all your doing, not mine. You’ve been primed and prepared to be, and do, your very best. So I’ll always trust you’ll do the right thing, even when I’m not around. Your destiny is in your hands, Butterfly; not in mine.”

  Daddy is so wrong, though.

  He has everything to do with whom I am, with how I am. And with whom I’ll potentially become.

  I know who I am.

  I know what I want.

  Because of him.

  I smile proudly, walking over and throwing my arms around his neck. “I love you, Daddy.”

  He hugs me tightly. “I love you, too, Butterfly.”

  * * *

  Later on in the evening, I’m downstairs in the family room with Daddy, painting my toenails and watching the latest episode of Empire, while eating popcorn and drinking orange cream floats.

  I love, love, love this show.

  And I love my time with Daddy.

  There’s no other place on earth I’d rather be than right here with Daddy.

  At least two nights a week we watch one of our favorite shows together. Or we hang out all day Sunday watching whatever we missed during the week on DVR.

  Chicago Fire—Daddy’s

  Rookie Blue—mine.

  Mistresses—mine .

  Pretty Little Liars—mine, of course.

  Dance Moms—mine.

  Extant—Daddy’s. I always tell him I know he only watches it because of Halle Berry. He always denies it and laughs. But I know better.

  Vikings—Daddy’s and mine. I always love the shows on the History channel.

  Stalkers—Daddy’s. Ohmygod! This show right here really frightens me. There are some really crazy people out there doing crazy things to people. Any time I watch this show with Daddy, when it’s over he has to keep his bedroom door open and go through the whole house making sure all the windows and doors are double-locked and the alarm is working properly before I can go to sleep—with a baseball bat in the bed with me.

  Daddy always tells me he’s here to protect me.

  And I believe him.

  Still, I feel safer knowing the alarms are set.

  Daddy belches, and I laugh. “Ill, Daddy.”

  “Excuse me.” He rubs his stomach. “You have me gorging myself on all this junk. All that butter and ice cream doesn’t agree with me.”

  I smirk. “Uh-huh, Daddy. No one told you to be a pig and eat it all.”

  Oops.

  I cover my mouth.

  I’ve accidentally belched.

&nbs
p; “Oh, who’s the pig now, huh?” Daddy teases, reaching for a throw pillow and playfully hitting me with it. We have an impromptu pillow fight during the commercial break. Something we’ve done ever since I was a little girl, along with having water balloon fights.

  I’m a girlie girl, but I also have my tomboy moments. I can throw a football; enjoy hiking, boxing, and riding dirt bikes... all thanks to Daddy.

  Sometimes I tell Daddy I know he secretly wishes he’d had a boy. He tells me never. But I think he only says that because he knows he has to.

  Still, Daddy is a lot of fun.

  “Okay, okay,” I say, laughing. “Pause, Daddy. Empire’s back on.”

  “Oh, aren’t you the lucky one,” he says, tossing the pillows back on the sofa, then plopping back in his recliner. “Saved by the television.” He reaches for his glass mug and slurps out the rest of his orange float, before reaching for the bowl of popcorn.

  Ten minutes later, I look over and Daddy’s reclined all the way back in his chair, asleep—mouth slightly ajar, drooling.

  Shaking the nail polish bottle, a devilish grin spreads across my face as I glance at his bare feet.

  I ease up from the floor and tiptoe over to him—even though I know a herd of elephants could stampede through the house and Daddy still wouldn’t hear them.

  I unscrew the polish and carefully paint his two pinky and big toes.

  Pink.

  7

  “Ohmygod! Daddy!” I squeal the following morning, looking down at his feet. He’s wearing a pair of Cole Hahn sandals, showing off his four pink-painted toes. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  He feigns ignorance. “What? I thought you wanted to spend the day with me at the mall, then catch a movie.”

  I blink. “I do. But—”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  There go my eyes again.

  Back down at his feet.

  His eyes follow my gaze. “What, you don’t like my sandals?”

  I shake my head vigorously. “No. I mean, yes. But you can’t go outside like that.” And I can’t be seen walking around the mall with you and your painted toes.

  He gives me a confused look. “Like what, Butterfly?”

  “Like that.” I point at his feet. “With your toes painted.”